The Saviours of Skyrim
by Mega Kilo 69
Summary: No one would've known. If Alduin was even a minute late then the world would've ended. But he wasn't. This is the tale of what happens when you are right where you're supposed to be. This is the tale of the Dragonborn.
1. Prologue

**A/N: So this is a story I'm writing with a friend of mine, who shall be named JC, he made one character and I made the other. We flipped a coin to decide some of the rules and this is the product we came up with. Hope you guys enjoy. **

The two men trudged along the road, making their way to where they had left their horses. One of the laughed.

"You're getting slow old man," the younger of the two joked. Sweating from the days excursion, he removed his steel helmet and brushed his dark braided hair out of his face. His face stretched into a smile as the older man growled. The young man howled with laughter. "I'm just saying, the day that I need saving from an Ice Atronach is the day that I hang up my sword in shame." He winked at his older companion. "Especially if I can throw fire from my hands," he laughed.

"Yes, because 'Cantus, help me, help me. The Draugr's killing me!' is much more you're style," the Cantus growls from within his long grey beard. Hsi young friend takes a step back with a theatrical gasp.

"The only things I've asked you to save me from are angry husbands, fathers and brothers. Oh, and that chicken in Riverwood. That thing gives me the creeps." He shivered. There was something about that chicken.

Cantus chuckled quietly. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I am getting old." He took a painful breath, the pain of his broken his ribs biting at him. That Atronach had given him a severe beating before his friend had saved him. He went to continue but the younger raised his hand.

"Fighting," he said quietly. He pointed with his hand into the woods. Now that Cantus focused, he could hear distant sounds of battle. He looked along the road and saw how it curved. He cursed.

"That's in the same direction as the horses," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I'm not up to full strength yet," he continued in frustration. The younger looked back, eyes calculating.

"We should just look and not get into anything unless we have to," the younger said lowly, making his way into the trees as he drew his bow. With the younger having much experience in stealth and the older wearing light robes and stepping lightly so as to not aggravate his ribs they approched the sounds of fighting quickly and quietly.

"Stormcloaks," Cantus hissed in malice. There was a group of blue armoured warriors in scaled and steel armour, some wearing the Bear of Eastmarch emblazoned on their chests or shields.

"Yep," the younger replied breezily. He cast an appraising look over the melee. "They're taking a beating, the Imperials have them on the ropes." Looking past the battle, the younger man grimaced and scratched his beard.

Cantus spoke up. "The horses are just beyond the fighting. If we wait until the fightings done, they'll probably claim the horses. If we make our move now, there's a chance, albeit large, that everyone'll try to kill us. It's probably better to wait until the fighting's over and try to barter with whoever's left. Right?" He looked to his left, where just moments before the younger man had been. The old man cursed and scanned the battlefield for his friend.

There he was, ducking under an Imperial's slash and slamming his fist into the offenders face. The man fell and didn't get back up. The younger man turned and made his way to the horses, sticking to the outside of the fighting. He untied the reins of his black stallion and was working on Cantus' pale mare when a shout went up. The land shook as several Imperials were knocked several feet away. Cantus looked on in shock as a blonde man in a fur trimmed cloak hacked at an Imperial soldiers neck. Cantus knew him, and his blood boiled at the sight.

Ulfric Stormcloak.

Before he could even think of acting, a Breton came from behind him and slammed the pommel of his sword into Stormcloaks head. The Jarl fell to his knees and slumped to the ground. A cheer went up at his fall and the Stormcloaks quickly surrendered. Cantus chuckled humourlessly. So much for their Death or Glory attitude.

Cantus scanned for his younger friend and paled. He was fighting off three Imperials, and as he watched he was caught off balance. One Imperial pressed the advantage and slammed his shield into his young friends face, kncking him to the ground. He tried to recover but another Imperial kicked at he sat up, catching him in the side of the head. He slumped heavily. Cantus cursed, burning with a need to act but all he could do was watch impotently as his friend was bound and hauled into a cart.

Braches snap to his side and he turns, gasping in pain as his ribs bite into him. The black horse, with its glowing red eyes, nudges him as he straightens, knees popping. Cantus groaned. He really was getting old. But there were things he had to do before he let Arkay take him. He patted the horse and rubbed it's face. "Don't worry Shadowmere, we'll get that fool back."

Cantus hoped he convinced the horse. He wasn't sure he could convince himself.

**A/N: Reference to the Riverwood Chicken of Death! So that's our prologue, hope it was vague enough. Read and review peeps!**


	2. Chapter 1: Bound

**A/N: What? Twice in one week? What's going on, you ask. I've got someone driving my ass into getting this story out as quick as possible is whats going on. That and I'm eager to carry on whileI have this laptop on loan. So anyway, here me go. Remember to review, it makes me feel warm inside :).**

Chapter 1: Helgen

The brown haired man stirred and woke from the blackness. He winced at the pain in the back of his head and went to rub it. Feeling resistance, he found that his hands were bound. He groaned in annoyance. He hated it when he got captured.

"Hey, you," said the man sitting across from him. He was wearing Stormcloak armour and his long blonde hair was tangled and muddy. "You're finally awake."

"You were trying to cross the border, right?" he asked, nodding before the young man could say anything whic, as concussed as he was, could be a long time. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there." The young man turned sharply, thoughts racing. Thief? He saw the man in question and relaxed. No one he recognised.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," the thief hissed angrily as he tried to scratch through his bonds. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. The Empire was nice and lazy." He tried pulling his hands apart but all he could do was grunt in anger. "If they hadn't been looking for you. I could've stolen that beautiful black horse and been half-way to Hammerfell."

The young mans ears pricked up at the mention of the black horse. Shadowmere. The last thing he remembered before being surrounded by soldiers was Shadowmere dissappearing into the forest. He probably went to Cantus. Which meant he should be on his way. The young man grinned and leaned back. Now we play the waiting game.

"You there," the horse thief said, looking to the brown haired youth. "You and me - we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants." He looked at the man hopefully, who regarded him coldly.

"If only I could get out of these bindings, I'd be able to whistle for my BLACK horse," he muttered darkly as the horse thief scowls.

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," the blonde pitched in sombrely.

"Shut up back there," the soldier driving the cart called over his shoulder. The young man looked along the road, trying to recognise it. Considering they were near the border, the path could take them to Helgen, Ivarstead or Riften. Those places were within riding distance. But where were they taking him?

"And what's wrong with him, huh?" The horse thief mocked. Turning, the brown haired man saw a man in a furred trimmed cloaked, with long braided hair and a gag covering his mouth.

"Watch your tongue," Ralof angrily chastisted the thief. "You're talking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true King of Skyrim." The young man's eyes widen imperceptively. So, this was the man who started a civil war? But if they were - almost literally - in the same boat as a traitor to the Empire, what would happen when they made port?

"Ulfric?" the thief whispered hoarsely. "The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

"I don't know where we're going," the blonde said quietly. He looked at the brunette. "But Sovngarde awaits," he finished gravely. Next to him the thief began to panic, muttering under his breath, eyes wide with fear. "Hey, what village are you from horse thief?" the blonde asked.

"Why do you care," he spat back bitterly, glaring at the Stormcloak soldier with anger.

"A Nords last thoughts should be of home," he replies.

The thief was quiet for a few moments before replying, "Rorikstead. I'm... I'm from Rorikstead."

"General Tullius sir! The headsman is waiting!" an Imperial called out. The brunette looked and smiled grimly. Helgen. So this was the place.

"Good. Let's get this over with," replied a voice. The cart trundled through the gates of Helgen and the young man sat straighter. Two people on horseback in the distance. One was an old Imperial, steel grey hair with decorated armour. General Tullius, leader of the Imperial forces in Skyrim. Next to him was a tall woman, High Elf, dressed in black robes. Thalmor, the puppetmasters of the Empire. The young man clenched his teeth.

So this was how he would die? He raged silently. After everything he had seen, everything he had done? He half expected a blade in his back and a shallow grave. Maybe even glory on the battlefield. But not this.

The young man looked around desperately as people gathered to watch the execution, sending away their children. Where in Oblivion was Cantus? It would've been simple enough to track the long procession.

Unless he...

"Why are we stopping?" the theif panicked.

"Why do you think," replied the blonde in resignation. "End of the line."

The man was shaken from his thoughts as the cart halted. One by one the bound prisoners stepped off the cart. This was it. This was where they'd spill the last of their blood. _At least the flowers would get a watering_, the brunette thought with a smirk. They had a name for that. Gallows humour.

An Imperial called out names of their cart, telling them to go to the block when their name was called. The first of Ulfric, and Ralof whispered praise as he passed. Next was Ralof, the blonde man, who walked with his head high, silent and with dignity. The horse thief, Lokir, came next. He screamed against his name and ran. An archer took him out before he could move 20 paces.

"Anyone else feel like running?" a Breton Legate shouted. Hadvar, the man reading the list, looked up from it and saw the young man.

"Wait, this one's not on the list. Who are you?" he asked in puzzlment.

The brunette was tall, taller than Hadvar, and his limbs were long and powerful. He had a stubbly beard and braided brown hair. A tattoo covered the right side of his face and a long scar covered his left cheek. His eyes were a deep green a glinted dangerously. Hadvar was used to all that. He'd seen countless men go to their deaths before. What he wasn't used to was the grin that the tall Nord wore, as if he didn't have a care in the world.

"My name?" asked the brunette, his smirk widening. "My name is..."

**A/N: And because I'm an ass, I think we'll stop there for today. Read and review peeps, this was mainly filler.**


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